


Elastic Heart

by Lehua



Series: Miniature Disasters [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Complete, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 13:49:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9823358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lehua/pseuds/Lehua
Summary: But now that the moment was here, Sherlock didn’t know how to proceed.  He wanted to run, but he didn’t; his heart was beating so fast in his chest and he felt like he was going to fly apart again.  This feeling almost compared to those times when he fell into a manic depression, unable to sleep or sit still, shooting walls out of boredom and pacing pacing pacing; the emotions running through his body wanted to fly out and destroy everything between him and his doctor, needed to smother John until he gave in, or killed him.  John reached for his wrist and placed two fingers on his pulse, and gasped at the heartbeat beneath his fingers.





	

Sherlock almost stood in the corner by the bar, watching John as he mingled with Yarders and strangers: Anderson was the one in the actual corner, and he was talking non-stop about all the things he “deduced” Sherlock got into during his time away. The ex-Yarder had a scruffy beard and long hair now, which wasn’t an improvement from when they’d first met all those years ago, but not everyone was built like John—except that bit with the mustache: that was horrid and aged John too much, and Mary had later told Sherlock she was a bit jealous John had shaved it for Sherlock: she’d been on him since the beginning to get rid of it.

Sherlock sipped whatever John had placed in front of him (wine: a bit not good) as Mary’s ghost took the stool recently vacated by John: she leaned back, her elbows bent on the counter, and watched her widower as he flittered from group to group, laughing and listening and generally socializing, something neither she nor Sherlock were one hundred percent comfortable doing. Sherlock could do it, but it would be an act, and later he’d be too exhausted to do anything else for several hours. He suspected Mary had been better than he when it came to socialization, but she was trained as an assassin so it was probably an important skill set she’d needed to learn…and she’d been a nurse as her last profession. Sherlock could put on the disguises and blend in, but Mary, she could live her disguise for however long she needed, as evidenced by getting shot by her not too long ago.

“I said I was sorry about that,” she said as she sipped an imaginary beer.

Sherlock grunted. It was his own damn fault for getting shot: he shouldn’t have let John’s regard stop him from doing what came naturally: deducing who this woman, Mary Morstan, was before John married her. But he had a blind spot when it came to John, something that could have cost John his life. In the end, marriage to Mary had only brought sorrow to John, but Sherlock wasn’t going to take the blame for that: John had chosen Mary despite knowing her past, had returned to her after the lies.

“You know I’m grateful for that, yeah?” Mary said, still watching John. “I knew you were a gentleman the whole time John was back at Baker St.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He would never do anything—on purpose since the Fall—to hurt John, and Sherlock knew in the end John would go back to Mary, his pregnant wife.

The Fall: when had it gained a capital? Life used to consist of before-John and after-John, but since Sherlock came back to London and John had rejected him so vociferously—Mary snickered—it was now life before-the-Fall and life after-the-Fall.

That was his first big mistake: leaving John in the dark. Sherlock hadn’t anticipated how long it would take to dismantle Moriarty’s crew, and there had been nights as he lay awake healing from another wound, when he realized his second mistake: he should have taken John with him. Sherlock used to joke he’d be nothing without his blogger, but he realized as he fought the battles alone it was true: John’s presence made everything easier and better. If John had been with him he may have been able to return to London sooner, may not have been tortured in Serbia where Mycroft used his influence to recover him. John also could have died, which was the whole point of keeping John in the dark in the first place.

His third mistake: showing off when he reunited with John. Sherlock had never claimed to be good with people, but he was good with John: they’d had a chemistry neither had anticipated when they first met, and Sherlock thought it would be the same when he returned. Mycroft had warned him but Sherlock had pressed ahead anyway, wounds freshly stitched and dressed on his back, asinine mustache drawn over his lips, eyes hidden behind glasses and face partially obscured by a menu, obviously faked accent talking over wine choices, and when the curtain finally dropped he’d been met with an incandescent fury. The look in John’s eyes had frozen all the blood in Sherlock’s body. Sherlock should have stopped right there, gotten down on his knees, and begged for forgiveness, but instead he’d deflected with a joke—“fourth mistake,” Mary said, toasting him—and John had come after him with death in his eyes.

Mary finally turned to Sherlock, both hands cupping her beer glass. “Does he ever shut up?” she said, indicating Anderson.

“Shut up, Anderson,” Sherlock said, and Anderson did with a click of his teeth. Sherlock turned his head to look at Anderson, and whatever was on his face made Anderson pale and run away, leaving a stack of articles on the bar. Sherlock watched the progress of the ex-Yarder through the pub, catching John’s eye in the process who scowled at Sherlock for a moment before returning to his conversation with Lestrade. The DI glanced at Sherlock, confused for a moment, and then kept talking.

“You’re making friends everywhere,” Mary said, nudging him with her elbow.

“Not a friend,” Sherlock replied.

“No,” she said, her eyes roaming over Sherlock’s figure. “You don’t have friends.”

“Just one,” he said, ignoring her gaze.

She looked away from Sherlock and toward the mirror opposite: no reflection stared back. “I wonder if this is what it feels like to be a vampire?” She spun in the stool and looked at John again. A woman had inserted herself into the conversation with John and Lestrade, batting her eye lashes at John who started to blush at her blatant attention. Mary titled her head back and said, “Jealous?”

Sherlock clenched his jaw, his knuckles white on the wine stem. He’d always had an irrational jealousy when people were interested in John, whether they were girlfriends or colleagues. It had been particularly bad before the Fall: Sherlock had pretty much run all John’s dates away. Whether it was endless texting while John was on a date, or calls about a murder case that needed to be solved right now, or one time when Sherlock showed up at the restaurant demanding he needed John now, Sherlock had derailed every relationship John had tried to start. Even his friendship with Lestrade had been a bit difficult for Sherlock to allow. But John was a grown man and Sherlock needed to respect his boundaries and “what the hell, Sherlock?” had been yelled numerous times to Sherlock’s face.

After the Fall it was just Mary—oh and that brief texting affair with Eurus which John couldn’t be blamed for because it was part of Eurus’ plan to hurt Sherlock---

“He knew better,” Mary said, “thus, the guilt.”

\--but had he? Because Eurus was able to program people just by looking at them; look what she’s been able to achieve at Sherrinford. Eurus was a black hole, pulling everyone to her in her orbit and making them submit to her will. The point was Sherlock couldn’t run Mary off because things had progressed too far and he couldn’t hurt John again. So he had sublimated his affection for his former blogger, and made it work.

“You’re rambling,” Mary said, pointing at him. He shot her a thunderous look. “Hey, I’m not really here: I’m in your head so I can hear everything you’re thinking. And the point you were trying to get to is you lied: you have more than one friend now.”

Sherlock blinked.

Mary sighed. “I was your friend.”

Yes. Mary had been his friend in the end, and her death had punched a hole straight through his solar plexus. Her death had thrown everything into chaos, almost killing Sherlock and John, and then she had asked the impossible of Sherlock: to save John Watson. Save John Watson, the man who didn’t want to see Sherlock’s face anywhere near his home or child, who refused his phone calls, who refused to hear messages from intermediaries, who refused the Queen. (John’s refusal to get in Mycroft’s car had tickled Sherlock in what was left of his shattered soul as he had tried to “Save John Watson.”) “Bet you hadn’t thought I’d be the one to get you killed?” he said into his wine, wincing at the taste.

“You didn’t kill me,” she said, turning her full attention on Sherlock. “Norbury killed me, had been trying to kill me for years. I couldn’t let her kill you. I loved you.”

Sherlock paused, wineglass tilted against his lips.

Mary punched him lightly on his upper arm, and for a moment, Sherlock could feel it in his gut. This conversation was occurring in his head and Mind Palace Mary had just claimed she’d loved him, Sherlock, the man who would have snatched up John in a second if John had shown any inclination towards loving Sherlock in the same way Sherlock loved John, and damn all the consequences.

Sherlock relinquished his glass and looked down at his hands. Mary intertwined her fingers with his and began to speak. “Sherlock, of course I loved you. How could I not? John loves you so much and I love John, all of him, and you are a part of John. I couldn’t love John without loving you too, and when Norbury decided to kill you I couldn’t let it happen. I wouldn’t have been able to save John this time. His grief had been so deep the first time you died, I knew he would die with you this time. And so I made a choice: I wanted John to live, to raise our daughter with the same wonder he still has despite all the shit we put him through. And I knew you would care for him as long as you were able, despite John’s pigheadedness. The only person who can match John in his stubbornness is you. He has always loved you more than me.” She turned to look at John, their hands still intertwined, her eyes wistful. She brushed a tear away, took a deep breath, and straightened her spine. “So you take care of him. Your life is not your own, anymore. It’s John’s and it’s Rosie’s. Love them as I would have, and take care of them.” She placed a kiss on his forehead and whispered as she disappeared, “I love you.”

John took that moment to glance at Sherlock, and smiled. Sherlock panicked and tried to figure out what expression was on his face, remembered the mirror, and found panic on his face. He shook himself mentally and put his neutral mask back on: it was one thing to be caught unawares at home having emotions; it was another being caught in public. Another look at John through the mirror and Sherlock found John was now laughing, their eyes catching in the reflection.

 

About an hour later, Anderson came back into the bar and cautiously approached Sherlock. He raised his hands, and said, “I just came back for my papers.”

Sherlock raised a brow but said nothing. He’d taken a look at Anderson’s findings and discovered the man wasn’t a complete idiot. Now he would see how far that extended. He waved his hand at the stool. “You might as well finish your beer; I had them pour a fresh one before you came in.”

Anderson stood looking at the frosty beer for a moment before clambering back onto his stool. He went to pick it up, then hesitated and pulled his hand back.

“I didn’t poison it,” Sherlock snapped, taking a sip of the beer (awful) and putting it back down on the counter a little harder than he’d meant, beer sloshing over his hand. Anderson quickly took a big gulp and put it back down again, as if he was trying to show willing to make the resident psychopath happy. Sherlock stood up and Anderson flinched. “I took a look at your articles.” He turned away.

Sherlock heard a squeak behind him. Anderson had a panicked look on his face and was clutching his folder like Rosie clutched her favorite stuffed animal while they were out strolling in the park, excitement stamped all over her face. “I have to wash my hand,” he muttered, the beer beginning to dry and stick. “I’ll be back.”

Anderson nodded and as Sherlock turned away again he heard the man let out an explosive exhale and then start riffling through the papers.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and walked to the nearest restroom, which was across the pub, so he made a small detour to touch John on his way, because why not? They hadn’t progressed beyond a goodbye morning kiss, but they both wanted to; he could see it in John’s eyes, could feel John’s presence behind him while he worked, wanting to touch but not wanting to intrude on whatever experiment Sherlock was currently doing. And Sherlock wanted to do everything with John, but didn’t want to frighten the man with his ardency. But a casual touch, among friends, was probably all right, and truthfully, Sherlock needed to touch John to ground himself; he felt like he was going to fly away. It was an odd, unsettling feeling.

John saw him coming and moved to allow Sherlock room to join the conversation, but Sherlock didn’t pause, just ran his fingers along John’s lower back as he passed, feeling the shiver that shook John’s spine at the contact, and continued on to the loo to wash the beer off his hand.  

When he emerged a moment later he found Anderson waiting outside the door. Sherlock froze. The scruffy man’s eyes were watering and he appeared to be vibrating on the spot; Sherlock hoped he wasn’t going to explode: that would be unpleasant. Instead, Anderson’s faced cracked into a huge smile and he whispered, “Thank you.”

Right. The papers; must have found the ones Sherlock marked with invisible ink. So the man wasn’t a complete idiot anymore. But he was still an idiot, so Sherlock just brushed by him and returned to his stool, this time taking the one Anderson had vacated to he could watch the pub with nothing behind him. Lestrade came over a few minutes later and took Sherlock’s recently vacated stool. “What’s with him?” Lestrade said, sipping his beer.

“He’s not a complete idiot,” Sherlock replied.

Lestrade’s body froze and his head turned sharply toward Sherlock. “You told him that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Not in so many words.”

Lestrade laughed and drank his beer, then watched people for a while.

John had moved on to another table and was chatting with a pretty brunette who clearly wanted John to take her home. Sherlock felt his face tighten as he closed off his feelings of jealousy, and then signaled the barman for water.

“It’s a pub, man; have a beer,” Lestrade said as Sherlock drank his water, and when Sherlock didn’t reply, he followed Sherlock’s gaze. “Think he’s going to begin dating again?” he said quietly into his beer.

“Doubtful; he has Rosie.”

“The one doesn’t have anything to do with the other until it gets serious.”

“John wouldn’t bring some random woman over to meet Rosie unless he was serious.”

“He doesn’t need to be serious to sleep with women.”

Sherlock looked at the DI, his eyes narrowing. “Is there a point to this conversation?”

Lestrade sighed. “Don’t wait too long this time, Sherlock. He’s already gotten one number off a woman tonight.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “What?”

Lestrade refused to look Sherlock in the eyes now. “I know you love him. Especially after that bloody speech—”

Sherlock waved the words away. “Of course he knows I love him. What’s this about a phone number?”

Lestrade froze again, this time wincing. “Probably shouldn’t have said anything about the phone number.”

John moved off to the restrooms and the woman followed soon after.

“You were trying to be kind,” Sherlock said, standing so he could get a better look at the restrooms; there were too many people between him and the doors.

Lestrade’s eyebrows nearly levitated off his head, so Sherlock turned his attention back to the DI. “What?”

“I didn’t think you’d notice,” Lestrade said, surprised.

“I notice everything, Greg, I’ve just gotten better at recognizing what I’m observing.”

Lestrade was the first one to break the gaze, and Sherlock preened within: next time he would beat Watson; that girl was like a cat: how she managed to never break at only almost a year was beyond him. But if any baby could do it, it was Rosie Watson.

John rushed back into the dining room, flushed, his face worried until he found Sherlock in the corner. His eyes widened and a smile tugged at the corners of John’s mouth as he started forward toward Sherlock. Then he frowned as a woman’s hand reached for his shoulder and tried to turn him around. Sherlock started moving toward John now as the brunette John had been talking to earlier began to drape herself all over him. The Yarders nearby started to laugh as John raised his hands and twirled the ring still on his left finger, clearly telling the woman he was unavailable and probably not interested. But she persisted until Sherlock loomed behind John, tugging the man back into his chest and wrapping his arms around him.

At first John stiffened, but then he relaxed and placed his arms around Sherlock’s. The woman looked mortified and started apologizing and backing away. Sherlock just stared at her until she left the pub.

Sherlock reluctantly stepped back from the heat of John’s body, pulling his arms away, but before they were completely disconnected, John turned and placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips and smiled, then pulled Sherlock close and hugged him, squeezing Sherlock until he almost squeaked. That’s when they both realized the pub was silent, so John ducked under Sherlock arms, leaving his arm around Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock’s around John’s shoulders. “Think it’s time to go,” John said, waving goodbye and ushering Sherlock out the door. As they stepped out onto the street, John said, “You didn’t leave anything in there did you?” John removed his arm and started rooting around in his pockets, pulling things out and then replacing them.

Lestrade came out of the pub a moment later with Sherlock’s great coat and clapped a hand on both Sherlock and John’s shoulders. “Never gonna live that one down, boys,” he said, smiling.

John laughed and then his face lit up as he found whatever he was looking for in his pocket. “Want a number, Greg?” he said, offering a napkin with a name and number on it.

Lestrade took it and put it in his own pocket, grinning still. “Couldn’t hurt to try; bout time I moved on.”

“I wouldn’t with her,” Sherlock blurted out before he could stop himself.

Both John and Lestrade looked at him. Lestrade removed the number from his pocket, shrugged, and threw it in a trash can. “Whatever you say, Sherlock,” then he wandered back into the pub after nodding at both men.

“Should we walk?” John said with his hands in his pocket again.

Sherlock shrugged on his great coat and started striding towards Baker Street; after a moment he slowed and shortened his strides, accommodating John’s shorter gait, and they walk, John humming off-key and Sherlock’s mind racing. They were clambering up the stairs to the flat before Sherlock could give voice to his concerns.

“Are you all right, John?”

“Hmm?” John said as he set about making tea. As the water boiled, John pulled his jumper off, his undershirt riding up a bit and exposing the soft skin of his belly, before discarding the jumper on a chair and pulling his undershirt down. All this happened in a moment, but John still caught Sherlock staring at the place where his skin had been exposed.

He smirked but turned back to the counter, pulling the tea together before the water pot popped, then placing the hot water and requisite sugar cubes in the cups and handing one to Sherlock before sitting in his chair.

Sherlock put the tea down, hung his great coat, grabbed his tea, and sat at his chair, facing John. They sipped their tea for a while before John responded, “I’m fine.”

Sherlock was confused for a moment, and then remembered. “Are you sure?” He placed his tea on the table beside him and leaned forward.

John shrugged. “She was a bit forceful, but I’ve had worse—”

“Not the woman, John!” Sherlock said, frustrated.

John eyebrows rose and he took another sip of tea. “What are you talking about?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure if John was teasing him or not. John-before-the-Fall would have been teasing him, but this John-after-the-Fall was different, and sometimes Sherlock couldn’t tell when John was teasing or being serious.   This was one of those times. So instead of walking off in a huff to his room, he sat back in his chair and fidgeted.

John’s eyebrows came together and any laughter in his eyes drained away. He placed his tea on the side table and leaned forward, placing his hand on Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock remembered a time not too long ago when they sat like this, inebriated with Post It Notes on their foreheads, and Sherlock had thought for a moment that John might return his feelings; but the moment had passed and they’d gotten into other troubles later that night.

Tonight they weren’t drunk—well, he wasn’t; John could be tipsy—and circumstances were different but the same, because they stood on a precipice and this time there was no one standing in their way if they wanted to jump. And Sherlock wanted to jump. But he didn’t want to jump without John.

But now that the moment was here, Sherlock didn’t know how to proceed. He wanted to run, but he didn’t; his heart was beating so fast in his chest and he felt like he was going to fly apart again. This feeling almost compared to those times when he fell into a manic depression, unable to sleep or sit still, shooting walls out of boredom and pacing pacing pacing; the emotions running through his body wanted to fly out and destroy everything between him and his doctor, needed to smother John until he gave in, or killed him. John reached for his wrist and placed two fingers on his pulse, and gasped at the heartbeat beneath his fingers.

Then John was in his space, practically in his lap, and he cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands. “You have to tell me, Sherlock,” he said, his voice desperate, “because I’m not sure what you’re talking about and I need you to calm down.” He kissed Sherlock’s forehead. “I can’t answer unless you tell me, and I need to slow your heartrate down before you have a stroke.”

At some point Sherlock had forgotten to breathe, so when he drew a breath in it was deeper than it should have been, his lungs expanding, his spine straightening, and John tipped the rest of the way into his lap, his hands sliding down to Sherlock’s shoulders. Before John could scramble out of the chair and off of Sherlock, Sherlock wrapped his arms around the smaller man and pulled him close. “Is this all right?” he said into the graying blonde hair.

Once again John stiffened for a moment, but then he melted into the embrace, his arms wrapping around Sherlock’s neck and his head resting in the hollow between neck and shoulder. John nodded and murmured, “yes,” before placing a kiss on Sherlock’s neck, right above his pulse.

They sat like that for a long while until Sherlock said, “Stop counting; I’m fine.”

John huffed against his neck then groaned as he began to tense the muscles on his legs. “I’m not; I’m too old for this shit.”

Sherlock smiled and squeezed before helping John up, watching John stumble back to his own chair so he could massage the feeling back into his legs. In the meantime, since John was going to be sitting in his chair until all the blood rushed back to his legs, Sherlock decided to play, the music welling up from somewhere in his soul. He poured all his tension into the instrument, and as John smiled with his chin propped up on his left hand, Sherlock played his heart out on the strings.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
